We Are Eternal
by Dark Raven Wrote
Summary: 'Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.' And Merlin is always waiting.


_**Pairing**: Merlin/Arthur  
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**_Warnings:_**_Reincarnation (character death), breif descriptions of death/illness, fleeting slash, angst, historical events._

_**Disclaimer: **Standard disclaimer applies, I do not own these characters or make any profit from this fiction._

**_A/N:_**_This is sort of canon compliant. This is a tragedy, please take note. Feedback would be lovely, this is my baby and I'm rather fond of it._

**_With Thanks:_**_To **Wawrthur** for being the babysitter I tortured when she did the preread throughs and cheerlead this thing the whole way. To **Jadesfire** who beta'd this wonderfully and, as ever, is lovely and I'm so glad she's agreed to work with me for my PL as well._

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**_We Are Eternal  
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**'**_Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.' _

_-Henry Van Dyke_

"I'll wait for you," Merlin manages to slur through his gasping tears moments before Arthur slips into oblivion.

The sunlight is as dead as Arthur against his skin. The world is silent around him. Arthur will never say another word either. Not in this lifetime. And Merlin knows, he knows Arthur will never be so Great again. He will never be the blazing flames, burning away all evil. But he will be the embers that singe and fight.

Merlin doesn't really need to think about which memory he'll choose to take with him when his time comes. He knows it will be of Arthur smiling, carefree and brilliant with youth. Imperfect teeth glinting. Eyes squinting against the bright sun and so blue they hurt to look at. Lips ruby against the light tan of early summer skin. Hair golden and windswept, gusting and brushing at the tips of his ears.

He knows because in that moment, for the first time, he decided he would do anything for Arthur. That he meant more to Merlin than the air swirling in his lungs. When he realised just how entwined their destinies really were. When he realised he loved him.

**1665**

For an unknown reason that Merlin cannot fathom, he discovers Arthur in his seventeenth year of life jogging from a steaming bakery with a babe nestled safe under his arm.

Their friendship is quick to rekindle, despite Arthur's lack of knowledge of their real situation. There is the spark of kinsmanship and the tell-tale flash of fondness that Merlin remembers shining through before.

He wonders which memory he will choose this time, whether he should pick something that is different. But then nothing can defeat the glory of Arthur's smile, which is tucked away safely inside himself somewhere, constantly caressed and tenderly held close.

The decision is taken from him three years later, although it isn't as much of a blessing as he would predict. If given the choice, he would rather be indecisive over wintery christmas scenes, warm by a hearth and happy with only the others' company, or autumn walks where Arthur looks at him through leaves as golden as his hair and grins like he is the only person worth smiling for.

In fact, it is the exact opposite. He is left alone the next time when the leaves wilt and the frost begins to bite.

The Plague sweeps across the British Isles like storm and fire, rapid and deadly and seizing life wherever it lingers in its wake.

Merlin's magic protects him from this one curse, a torture as it turns out. And Arthur fights valiantly with every ounce of might he clutches to his breast. But the illness is too strong.

It is the height of summer when he slips away, the sun beaming from the sky and the smell of sewage fermenting strong in the air. And there is nothing Merlin can do, this image will be scarred onto his memory without his consent; of Arthur's slow grimace, blackened lips stretching slow and painful beneath blackened nose; sweat boiling all over the inferno of his body; eyes aching with the suffering.

It's only a year later trapped inside his collapsing hovel in Cheapside, while he is gagging and hacking on the stench of his own flesh sizzling and charring in the blazing flames, an embodiment of Uther's wrath many, many generations too late, that he realises.

This was Arthur's task.

It is one of fate's cruellest jokes, he thinks she must be snickering from behind her plots. Or perhaps she is accusing Arthur of weakness, a thought Merlin does not particularly care for.

All he knows is that if Arthur had been here, somehow, London never would have burned. And they may have been blessed with a real life together.

But, thus, Merlin marches, resigned, toward the veil to await his next calling.

**1749**

There is a welcoming familiarity that comes with their life atop the roiling seas.

When the waves beneath them are calm, like Calypso content to wallow, satisfied, in her lover's embrace, Merlin can serve Arthur with only several vague stumbles.

And this? This feels like home.

And safety.

And when Poseidon's trident crashes down with a violent tempest, they spend their nights tucked beneath Arthur's warm blankets, suffocating in their own intimacy. Merlin thinks he likes this new definition of their relationship. This new closeness that grows with every day, with every word, and knows no bounds.

Sometimes, when Arthur is grunting and rutting and so near to his peak his entire body quivers behind him, through him, Merlin is sure he will die from it. Choke on his own satisfaction, consequences be damned for the real world that continues on outside of their little sanctuary.

For six years, six long, peaceful, _beautiful_ years, they stand united once more at the head of one of His Majesty's ships, collecting exhilarating tales of adventurous deeds against nefarious criminals on the high seas and glorious heroics all complete with a romanticism that makes Arthur shine with the vibrancy of the very legends he is trapped within.

Arthur is stolen from him cruelly, this time, plucked from between his fingertips like puppet strings snatched from a child.

One second, Merlin is gazing at him, nothing but awe for his grandeur, captured in the gravity of his presence as he leaps with the ease and grace of Apollo mid flight to the pirate ship. The tableau stamps itself on his mind and he knows that despite their lovemaking - sometimes desperate, often sweet - he will take this memory and curl it into himself with his swelling nest.

Despite their intimacy in this life and despite not knowing when he will be able to mouth at his lips again or tug at his hair with the urgency of a man whose cock is halfway down someones throat again. Even though this may be his only opportunity to remember how Arthur looks debauched and rumpled and flushed after his climax, Merlin cannot turn his eyes from the Arthur of this second.

The fire in his eyes is like the sun, bright and fierce and so _alive_ they burn Merlin even to watch. He is magnificent like the phoenix for one moment, lingeringly, and Merlin has a brief glimpse of why it is Arthur. Why it is _always_ Arthur. And there is something niggling in Merlin's chest that tells him this is how Arthur is meant to be. Who he was born to be. That he should hold on to this with every magical fibre of his being until matter dissolves and their souls are lost to the ether.

The next second, blood is ripping from Arthur's chest and he is falling, down, down into the abyss. And Merlin can do nothing, the sword suddenly at his throat sees to that. He can only stare, the horror slashing at his guts and his heart clattering between his teeth, as Arthur disappears beneath the surface of the dark water, which brews heavily below them as if pending a storm in sympathy.

Merlin's throat gags like drowning and the gurgling of life being sucked away too soon. Like Arthur now, lost to the depths.

But it doesn't matter.

The pirate ship is heaving before him, stuttering and taking on water. Sinking, slowly but surely. And maybe it isn't too soon.

The metal at his throat is quick and stinging. But there is no pain left for him to feel, no suffering he has not suffered in losing Arthur.

The veil is before him and this time, perhaps for the only time, he is permitted graciously to wedge their fingers together as they cross it.

He allows himself one more moment to remember how Arthur looks beneath him, when he rides him in the deepest embrace of night, before they cross the threshold as one.

**1914**

Arthur is betrothed. His father is overbearing and his mother is frightened of her husband's hand when away from the public eye.

So, Arthur is betrothed.

The age Merlin is losing himself to is a time of strict, stiff clothing and even stiffer social rules. His collars are tight at his throat but the restrictions governing his actions are like chains, binding and squeezing and imprisoning.

He may shine and spit on Arthur's shoes, but he may never touch him. He may stoke his fires and blacken his hands cleaning his home, but he may never catch his eye. He may save a major political advisor's son from death's snatching fingers, clawing out using gunpowder and an assassin's greed, and lose a finger in the process, but he may never, under any circumstances, say 'hello.'

The war heralds equal opportunities, or so the beggars are saying, people so desperate they latch onto any idea that could redirect their lives. Merlin knows better. The underprivileged will never lead armies. Just as the rich will never be sacrificial lambs to slaughter.

He also knows he has to wait. Has to wait for Arthur to sign up, to be ready. He can feel the hurricane, violent and destroying and _devastating,_ approaching their corner of the world. Even though he feels like Arthur is an entire universe apart from him most of the time, they will both be swept up into the travesty together. Their one area of common ground.

So he bides his time, watches as Arthur and his bride-to-be inch closer. His heart pounds with jealousy every time they are allowed casual touches, every time Arthur smiles for her, a shy smile like the sun hesitantly dawning, fresh and bright.

He holds on and ignores the ache where his finger used to be.

He simmers and worries endlessly whether his bitterness is mutating his own precious memory of Arthur's smile. Because that smile burns so bright it outshines the stars and it is for him alone. It is difficult to imagine Arthur liking him enough to grace him with such a joyous face.

Because this Arthur won't even look at him, not a single glance. He is cold and distant, as far away as that life filled to overflowing with laughter and closeness. There is nothing of the swashbuckling hero of legend or the great king of myth. There is only a spoiled boy, meek and hidden by his father's shadow.

It is this disappointment that makes Arthur all the more difficult to watch, all the more incomprehensible that he is still thoroughly, _utterly_ devoted.

Can a soul age?

Merlin begins to wonder. His Arthur would never have let himself be dulled by another. Would never have let his spark wane or his ember flicker. Perhaps his essence is weakening. Merlin, himself, notices the weariness in his bones sometimes, how the pang of his heart is so familiar a companion it brings a new throb of loneliness with its presence.

Soon, Arthur's father orders him to enlist.

So they enlist.

Arthur still isn't ready. Merlin can see his greatness reflected back at him, still not quite close enough to the surface. But at least he can now look him in the eye, commanding officer or no.

Arthur's failure to recognise his face is a fresh, swelling bruise in his lungs every time they come into contact.

But, eventually, destiny will find a way. Or perhaps it is his magic, tugging gently at Arthur until he is pulled in because Merlin wants it so much. And they finally settle into the uneasy semblance of friendship that only two men who have spoken all of fifty words to one another can have when they could die at any second.

Merlin learns the importance of companionship in the long days that follow.

He wishes he could forget how everything he touches is mould-crusty and rotten under his fingers; how his toes are constantly numb from the wet and the cold; how everything smells so equally revolting that nothing does; and how the four horsemen wreaking havoc around him are the only constants of his current life.

He stumbles away when he finds his first corpse, hacking and gagging, the man's hair is too blond and Merlin can feel the ash, thriving and thirsty, biting at his throat.

Every time Arthur goes away Merlin laughs along with his parting joke, a tradition that is quick to become a lifeline, and then he wonders if this will be the time he doesn't come back.

One day, he doesn't.

It is impossible to sleep through the thunderous noise, but Merlin is too busy to notice. Too busy thinking.

This Arthur was just a boy, too young to die, whose glory was snatched from him before it could flourish and bloom.

Merlin feels Arthur's embers splutter and fade a little.

When his trench is gassed, Merlin sucks in the fumes, welcoming. It bubbles and spits like tar inside him. And he grasps at the image of Arthur's shy smile. It isn't his to take but it is one of the only true smiles this Arthur has ever known, so he will anyway.

And if Arthur cannot be magnificent, who would want to be part of this torturous world?

**Epilogue**

By the age of ten, with his mind whirring and alive with reawakened memories, Merlin has already resigned himself for a long wait. He knows he will need to settle down and make his heart hibernate until Arthur rises again. Arthur is his destiny and he is, by now, well practised in tasting the echoes of his soul as he flickers closer to the surface of the veil.

And this time, he must be patient.

When he is young, he remembers his stomach aching with the hunger that follows at war's heels like a rabid dog. He remembers holding his mother's hand and hoping he never has to watch her cry. He remembers dark nights that are eternally long huddled with her in their shelter and begging her not to send him away.

He sings badly to the Beatles, dances even worse when the age of rock 'n' roll hits. And all the while he waits. And waits.

And waits.

The decades merge until fashion is a confusing mass of colour and long words that mean absolutely nothing to him. There are celebrations and street parties, even a coronation, and nearly eighty new years before he feels it, niggling away at his heartstrings.

It is small and fragile but it is there, a warmth that Merlin knows well. It is the warmth of summer waking and joy and life bursting into the world. It is the warmth of a smile, bright and exploding with burning energy. It is the vivid simmering that boils in Merlin's veins with the loss of a loved one. It is the magnificence and the boundless glory the heavens have bestowed on Arthur's presence that make his blood sing and tingle. It is the warmth of a smile and the shame of the timid who will never reach it.

It is a face, glowing and twisting in his mind. Eyes as blue as sapphires, iridescent in the noon of beltane. Skin like rejuvenated life and dewdrops with cheeks flushed and nose tan. Lips plush and ready for a touch.

It curls up his spine like ghosting fingertips whispering; caresses at his muscles like ocean tides; wedges in the wrinkled lines of his face; and grasps at his everything.

He is old and decrepit; wise as the owl but haggard like the crone.

The time is now.

And King Arthur has returned.

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_Many thanks again to the people who helped me._

_Please leave feedback if you think it's worth it._

_Bella_


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